Sound Barrier
by ScubaKanga
Summary: When Thomas goes deaf fighting in trenches, the only place he is able to go is Downton Abbey. How will his injury change things? With new frienships, enemies and romances it's never calm for long at Downton. Discontinued indefinitely, sorry folks.
1. Chapter 1

**Sound Barrier. **

All right people, here it is. The story I was talking about in the forum and that I meant to start 2 weeks ago. Now, I must warn you it is very much a story in the making, seeing as I have currently only planned 2 chapters and would really appreciate people giving me ideas for sub-storylines. And I have abandoned another story slightly I order to do this one. I hope you like it.

XXX

Prologue

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

'Take cover, lads!'

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

'I can't get there!'

'Come _on! _ It's going to –'

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A momentary ringing, and then utter silence. Thomas Merrick opened his eyes.

'Am I dead?' he thought. He looked around at the half-destroyed trench and felt the rain falling on his face. This didn't feel like death. He was still alive! For a few moments he stayed in his curled position, waiting for the transitory deafness from the shell to pass, but didn't move even when he supposed it had passed.

At the minute it was quiet. Was the battle over? God knows he was beginning to hate the sound of gunfire with a vengeance.

It was February 1915, he was in a cold trench in France, and he loathed it. He'd never wanted to have to come and fight. In an attempt to get out of trench warfare he'd tried to train as a doctor, but many people had the same idea and hospitals had too many employees to take him on. One thing led to another and he ended up enlisted on this suicide.

He was wet. He was freezing. His uniform was unwashed and covered in mud. He was hungry. Rations had been reduced further as supplies struggled to arrive in the cold weather. Getting up, he looked at his dirty hands. One was trembling slightly.

Thomas jumped as a hand clasped his shoulder, and swerved around to find himself facing Matthew.

Matthew nodded quickly before reloading his gun, but Thomas wondered if it was broken, because it didn't click. He also didn't know why he wanted to fire again, Thomas was quite enjoying the lull in the battle.

His companion mouthed something at him before he peered cautiously over the side of the trench and fired a couple of shots, but it didn't make any sound. Gun must be broken or out of ammunition.

The soldier was about to go over to him when around five more men ran to this part of the trench. The officer, a burly man with a cliché handlebar moustache, motioned for them to huddle together like rugby players, to plan his new attack.

When he began talking enthusiastically, Thomas backed out of the circle as a cold washed over him and his mind went blank for a few seconds.

_He couldn't hear anything. _There was just complete, unnatural silence. The shell explosion could have caused brief deafness, but that would have passed by now. Was this just a temporary thing? Would it go in a few minutes? Of course it would leave. It had to…

His platoon looked at him oddly, and he saw William, also in his unit, glance at him in a confused but apathetic way before turning to someone else.

XX

Matthew saw Thomas back away from the group with a slight look of shock on his face. Was he shell-shocked? The man walked over to him along with the officer of the unit.

'Thomas? You all right?'

His partner just looked at him in incomprehension. Matthew frowned. The officer sighed.

'Pull yourself together, Merrick! There's work to be done!' No reaction. 'Are you all right? What's wrong?'

'I…. I – can't hear.'

'You can't _hear? _From the shell?'

Blank stare. Matthew mimed an explosion. Thomas shrugged, and then nodded. Officer Hurley pinched the bridge of his nose.

'Shall I take him to the infirmary section, sir?'

'No… yes. But I want him back. This'd better be temporary.'

But it continued.

For the next few days Thomas was kept in the makeshift infirmary in a vain hope his hearing would return. Brief tests were done, but the medics were more busy with the people with life-threatening injuries.

Eventually, the officer of the regiment agreed to give him leave on the conditions that he returned as soon as he could hear again ('Sending perfectly fit soldiers home! It won't do!').

Thomas himself gave no argument, but neither did he show much enthusiasm. A day after the injury he had clammed up and hadn't been heard to utter a word since. Most of the time he just sat and stared into the distance.

Not many people sympathised. It was very easy to take a dislike to him. However, the people who knew him before the war tried to put aside their differences for the greater cause. Of course, relations would always be strained between Thomas and William, but he had managed to find an odd warped friendship with Matthew Crawley. Branson had been transferred to a different regiment.

And so it was, Thomas and Matthew forming an odd comradeship. Not exactly friendship, but called as such for lack of a better word. Thomas still had a tendency to be snide, but he still seemed aware that Matthew was slightly higher class than him, and tried not to resent the fact. The younger soldier proved to have a witty sense of humour when he wasn't pushing everyone away.

Matthew could often return a sharp comment with a sharp retort. On good days he and Thomas could have great conversations, on others they would hate each other.

Now, of course, everything changed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_February 26__th__ 1915_

_Aisne, NW France_

_Lord Grantham,_

_I write to you somewhat reluctantly, because I know it is unfair to ask this of you, but there is no other alternative. Whilst fighting in the trenches, General Thomas Merrick has sustained an injury which requires an undetermined period of home leave. Unfortunately, he has no family to go to and friends are unable to take him. His last home was in your service, at Downton Abbey. I am writing to ask if you could take him in and give him somewhere to stay. I apologise if you are inconvenienced by this request, but I do not know who else to write to. Will you take in a soldier who was injured fighting for his country? _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Second-Lieutenant Hurley_

_3__rd__ Regiment. F.A. via Aisne. _

'Ridiculous,' muttered Lord Grantham, 'ridiculous.'

'What's ridiculous?' Cora swept into the room. Cold afternoon sunlight shone in through the window, 'Did you know the Germans are using liquid fire now? It was in the newspaper this morning.'

'Mm.'

'They started two days ago, on the 26th. Sounds dreadful, doesn't it, Robert?' She saw him frowning thoughtfully, and came closer. 'Sorry, I went off-topic. What were you saying was ridiculous?'

'This.' He handed her the slightly crumpled letter, and waited a minute for her to read it. When she finished she handed it back to him and bit her lip. He looked expectantly.

'Well?'

'I…it's…'

'What do you think?'

'I think… Robert, I think we should take him in.'

'Cora!'

She looked at him. 'You don't think we should?'

'No… I don't know…. I don't know. I have no idea what to do.'

'I do.'

'Listen, I was about to sack him when he handed in his resignation. He was trouble. I didn't think I'd ever have to see him again, I barely worried about it. He was just a footman. Now they want me to let him live here.'

'Well, he can't work.'

He sighed and looked out of the window. 'What does it say his injury is?'

She scanned the letter. 'It doesn't.'

'Then for all we know he could be half-mad! He could have lost his arms, I don't know.'

Cora joined him by the window and for a second they merely stood side by side and looked at the garden. The first flowers were beginning to show. She put a hand on his shoulder.

'I'm not saying we should take him in because I like him, I'm saying it because I think it's the right thing to do,' she stated.

He swerved and began pacing around the room like a caged animal. 'It would be the right thing to do if we were a hospital! If we were related to him! Not if we used to employ him! I just don't know why he has to come here.'

'Where do you want him to go?' For the first time a touch of steel entered the Countess of Grantham's voice.

'I don't know, Cora! But I shouldn't have to worry! He could find somewhere – in London, I don't know. Is that all we are now? A hostel for injured soldiers?'

'So we'll refuse him a home? He can hardly survive on his army wage.'

'Then he can find family or friends!'

'He has no family.' She read slightly sadly, 'I never knew that.'

'I… why is he in the trenches anyway? I thought he was going to be a doctor.'

'Obviously something didn't work out.'

'Yes. Well…'

'Why are you so against this?'

'I'm not- or, well, I just never expected this.'

'Robert-'

'No, I'm sorry, you're… you're right. We'll take him in. He can stay in the staff corridor – plenty of spare rooms there.'

'The servants won't like this.'

'I thought you just said- '

'I did, sorry, you are doing the right thing.'

'This is insane.'

'Yes, but what's life without a little insanity? And anyway, Mary will be happy,' she added, smiling, 'Thomas might bring news of Matthew.'

He looked at her, and finally smiled back, letting some stress out. 'How are things between those two?' he asked.

'Well, I know that Mary was very upset when Matthew left. Something definitely happened at that garden party last year.'

'Oh really? I thought he left when… when you became pregnant.'

'No, I think there's been a proposal somewhere.'

'Well, let's see, Mary can be quite…'

'I know, but they definitely like each other.'

'Well, here's to hoping he doesn't get killed.'

'Robert!'

'Sorry, but it's a nasty war. You can see the death toll in the newspapers. No family will leave this war unscathed.'

XXX

'Anna, Gwen, Her Ladyship asks that you make up one of the empty rooms in the staff corridor,' announced Bates as he entered the room where most of the servants had gathered in the cold weather.

Anna looked at him in surprise. 'In the staff corridor? Why?'

The valet took a deep, resigned breath and finally said 'Thomas is coming back.'

Everyone turned round at this and looked at each other, their faces portraying various degrees of outrage, shock and irritation. Immediately the questions began to pile up.

'What do you mean he-'

'He can't come –'

'Why is he –'

'I don't believe –'

'I thought he went –'

'All I know is,' began Bates, '…Listen, all I know is that something happened in the trenches, he was injured and he is coming back here.'

'What was he doing in the trenches?' pondered O'Brien, 'I thought he was going to work at a hospital.'

A murmur, reflecting that everyone had believed the same.

'Never mind that,' snapped Anna, unusually annoyed, 'Why is he coming _here? _He resigned! And look at the trouble he caused last time – he can't want to come back!'

'Now, Anna,' interrupted Carson, 'I'm sure there's an explanation behind this. I don't like this either, but there's nothing we can do about it.'

The housemaid sighed before signalling to Gwen to come with her, who reluctantly moved away from the fire to follow.

Mrs Hughes looked down the table at Daisy, who had a decidedly irked expression on her face. 'Where's Mrs Patmore, Daisy?'

The girl jumped to attention and seemed distracted from what she had been thinking. 'Oh, I'm not sure. You know, Mrs Patmore says she's seen a ghost? Here, in Downton!'

'A ghost?'

'Yeah, in the back yard. She says she saw it walking and walking in the night and then left.'

'Humph,' said Carson, 'I don't care for ghosts. Nonsense and folklore.'

'Quite,' agreed the housekeeper.

'But it's important if she says someone was in the yard.'

'Oh, probably just her imagination. It was night-time. Nothing's been taken, anyway.'

'Um…' Daisy had a thoughtful expression again.

'Yes?'

'Oh, no, it's nothing, but… I was thinking, do you think Thomas might have news of William? Just… you know, I was wondering how he was.'

Everyone else in the room exchanged knowing expressions, smiling slightly.

'I don't know, Daisy, but I'm sure he can tell us about what William's been doing.'

She grinned and seemed mollified.

'I wonder what's wrong with him,' she wondered.

'Who?'

'Thomas. You said he was injured, Mr Bates?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps he's lost a limb. Or maybe he's got shed lock.'

'Shell shock.'

'Yes.'

'Well, we'll see. Don't speculate so, Daisy, he's not a toy.'

'Sorry.' But she still looked fairly excited with the idea of an injured soldier.

Bates, on the other hand, looked vacant.

'It's a horrible war, this,' he said, 'Pointless.'

'Oh, well, it'll all be over by Christmas.' Mrs Hughes replied. 'We'll just let the Allies sort out the Germans; I don't imagine it'll take long to finish this war.'

He sighed. 'We'll see.'

XXX

Nearing nine in the evening, the Crawley family (apart from Matthew and his mother) were dining and discussing the new fashions.

'I think it's ridiculous, women doing men's work,' stated the Dowager Countess of Grantham, looking preened and nose permanently curled, 'What is the world coming to?'

'They're making dresses shorter to make it easier for them as well,' said Cora.

'Yes, I've seen them,' her mother-in-law replied, 'So far above the ankles, they're practically stripping.'

'Mother. I suppose it's fair enough, if all the young men are fighting.'

'But the dresses!'

'I think it's excellent,' interrupted Sybil, 'Women aren't being stopped from doing so many things. They get to work for themselves. And the dresses, they're just making it easier. Personally I think it would be better if they wore trousers.'

'Sybil,' laughed Mary, 'What a preposterous thought.'

'Well, our little activist has shown us as much,' said Lord Grantham.

There was a moment of silence.

'Well, anyway,' he carried on, 'Enough on that. Me and Cora have some news that should interest you all.'

He hesitated and shared a glance with his wife before continuing.

'Do you remember the footman named Thomas?'

'The black-haired one?'

'Yes.'

'Yes, he left didn't he?'

'He did, but… he's, he's coming back.'

The three girls nodded and looked politely interested.

'No, there's more. He went to fight on the Front Line, in the trenches. Well, he's injured and we've agreed to let him stay at Downton. In the staff corridor.'

'Why isn't he going to his family?' said Edith.

'He has none.'

'Oh.'

'You said he was injured? Why isn't he going to hospital?'

'I don't know, the letter wasn't very informative. But we'll have to worry about when he gets here. Anyway, that's not why I thought you'd be interested.'

'No?'

'Honestly, girls,' Cora said, 'He might have news of the others. Matthew, Branson, William.'

'Branson?' Sybil's head snapped up , 'I do hope so.'

Mary looked lost in thought. 'Matthew… he hasn't written to any of us, has he?'

'He wrote to his mother a few times.'

'Oh.' Her expression was unreadable.

'When is he coming? Thomas?'

'Monday. Carson, I believe we're ready for dessert.'

'Very good, sir.'

The Dowager Countess of Grantham sighed. 'We're a home for broken soldiers now.'

_-A/N. Right, chapter two. I hope you like it. OK, so these two chapters are just to get this started. Soon this is all going to go haywire. Thanks to MissMattSmith for reviewing last chapter. I'd really appreciate reviews, and constructive criticism. Next chapter: Thomas arrives, and Sybil gets a surprise. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry when I said Sybil would get a surprise this chapter. It had to be moved to next chapter, sorry!_

_I've made my mistakes, got nowhere to run_

_The night goes on as I'm fading away_

_I'm sick of this life, I just want to scream_

_How could this happen to me?_

_-Untitled, Simple Plan_

Chapter Three

The cabman waited. His passenger seemed to be frozen in his seat, staring at Downton Abbey as if it were hell come to reclaim him. Outside, the grey clouds sighed and cast darkness over the town. Wind spattered into the motorcar. The weather was always the same these days. Bad. Cold. The end of February was no different from the beginning of March.

He realised that this man didn't want to be here. Not sure why – bad history, enemies, or perhaps there was somewhere else he should be instead. He almost wished he could just keep driving, it felt wrong to leave the passenger here, and he didn't know why, because that made no sense.

Something in the air, he supposed.

The man in the back had a hopeless expression, the face of one which has tried a dozen times to escape and then found himself in another prison. It wasn't a happy look. At the same time, a fading attempt at a sneer, a calculating cool look, was falling away.

His suitcase was small, sprayed with mud. A soldier, he gathered. The case had the initials 'T.M' on them.

For a few seconds they sat there, neither making an attempt to move. But eventually someone had to do something, so the cab man got up, but it was the emotions behind each action which meant something.

He got the case.

_You have to go sooner or later._

The soldier looked up.

_Already?_

He opened the door.

_I'm sorry, but it's my job. _

The passenger hesitantly got up.

_Don't leave me here._

And took the suitcase from him.

_I have to. Goodbye, sir. _

The motor slowly pulled away and when he glanced back, the man had repositioned the superior, indifferent countenance on his face.

The motor left the drive, and he went out of sight.

XXX

Carson was the one to open the door. Thomas was stood there, in normal clothes, looking awkward as he stared at the side of the door.

A moment of silence. Carson wondered what was wrong with him – he seemed fairly healthy to him. Wasn't Thomas meant to be injured? All of him there: two legs, two arms, and a head.

Finally he said, in a formal, impersonal voice, 'Thomas.'

The ex-footman didn't react. He said nothing, and after a few moments looked up at him from underneath his golf hat. The butler saw nothing behind his eyes.

Well. How childish. Thomas was sulking, refusing to speak. Anyway, enough dawdling in the porch.

'There's a room prepared in the staff corridor. Follow me,' even though they knew perfectly well where the staff corridor was.

Carson turned and began walking, and after a few seconds he heard Thomas start following.

They stopped outside the room at the end of the corridor. Quickly, the older man brandished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The other walked in.

Thomas looked around. It was his old, god-forsaken room. Who'd have guessed that he'd be trapped here again, and so soon. He'd thought the war would be his escape, but it just turned out to be a tunnel en route to the same damn place.

He loathed his life. The suitcase fell from his hands onto the floor. Suddenly, he remembered Carson was still there. Swerving round to face him, Thomas inclined his head, half nod, half acceptance. Carson took the handle and closed the door behind him.

The same simple bed. The same window, with the same damn view. He wondered if he'd ever hated the world more. Ever since he'd been employed here he'd gone round and round in circles following false hopes that he could get out.

Last time, he'd been angry. The insults and sarcastic comments slipped off his tongue easily, but they didn't vent his frustration in the slightest. Which just made him angrier.

This time, he just thought… nothing. He had no inclination to be horrible, or to be nice. Just to stay in this room forever.

After a while, he sat on the bed, watching the first drops of rain get pulled towards the ground.

XXX

Carson went into the kitchen to find all the staff sat around the table expectantly, and almost rolled his eyes.

'How did you find him?'

'Well, he was… much the same.'

'Has he lost an arm?'

'No.'

'A leg?'

'No – Daisy!'

'Sorry…. What has he lost then?'

'He has lost nothing.'

'Oh. Then what's wrong with him?'

'I don't know. Nothing that I could see.'

'Maybe he's gone mad.'

'Daisy, help me with these soufflés,' interrupted Mrs Patmore, 'Right little morbid girl we've got here, eh?'

'He'll have news of William!'

'Daisy!'

'Sorry!'

Anna smiled, and then sighed. 'I still don't like this. He shouldn't come back here, not after what he did last time.'

Bates took her hand under the table. 'It's all right, I don't suppose he had much choice in the matter.'

'I suppose.'

XXX

Mary and Sybil giggled as they neared the door to the staff corridor.

'We shouldn't be doing this.'

'Don't worry, I've been here before.'

'Mary! When?'

'Oh… it doesn't matter.'

'Right.'

The door opened. The bare corridor stood before them. Sybil looked at her sister.

'So we just ask Thomas if he has letters from Matthew or Branson, and leave.'

'Yes. It'll only take a minute.'

They giggled again, slightly nervously, and made their way to the end room. Sybil shivered in the slightly colder area of the house.

'Are you sure it's this room?'

'No.'

'Brilliant.'

'You knock.'

'What? Why?'

'Well, I don't want to.'

'No, you're knocking.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

'N – fine! We're acting like children. '

Finally Mary rapped uncertainly on the wood, and they waited.

XXX

Thomas saw shadows under the door and the door moved slightly. He wondered if they were knocking, and decided he might as well check.

To his surprise he opened it to see Lady Mary and Lady Sybil standing there, grinning like a pair of schoolgirls. He didn't want to deal with this now. Give him a break. A year would do.

When Mary opened her mouth and began speaking, Thomas felt trapped. How could he know what they were saying? He was overwhelmed. The silence was so deafening, and he knew that there were so many noises he was missing, hidden behind the sound barrier. He felt himself trembling slightly, and it irritated him.

He didn't want to be here, he didn't want two girls talking to him when he couldn't hear a word, he didn't want to be in Downton Abbey, he didn't want to be deaf forever.

_Oh God. _

_Deaf forever. _

The girls finished their speech and looked at him expectantly, but he couldn't stand it. Everything was falling down in front of him in overwhelming realisation. He had to get away.

He pushed past Sybil, not hearing her exclamation of surprise, and ran down the backstairs, his footsteps not making a sound. He found himself able to go either back upstairs, where the two Ladies were, in the kitchen, where he could see O'Brien speaking silently, or the cellar.

He prised open the cellar door, and stayed inside, hoping that he could _think, _everything was so _loud, _and he couldn't speak, think, breathe.

The darkness hit him, but he welcomed it. Everything was moving into place. He liked it here. It wasn't Downton Abbey, it was a trench, cold and dark and damp. Silent. Thomas felt his breathing slow down and his heart beat back at normal rate.

Perhaps he could just stay here. The real world was breaking into pieces, all the walls crashing down around him, and he could just hide here in this hole, shielded from everyone.

Finally his mind stopped racing and he felt comforted here. Alone. Had he just had a panic attack? Maybe. He didn't want to think what happened next, because he couldn't stay here forever.

This situation was not good.

XXX

Lord Grantham turned as two of his daughters fell into the room, looking confused and concerned.

'Hello gi-'

'We went into the staff corridor,' broke in Sybil, not listening.

'Why?' he asked, not sure whether to be angry or not.

'Thomas-' Mary began. Lord Grantham sighed.

'We went to see Thomas to ask if he had letters or news from Matthew or Branson. Please don't be angry, Father.' Sybil finished.

'Right,' he said, 'and why am I being told this?'

The two girls looked at each other.

'When we were there, he ran away. I asked him about news, and he looked at me oddly, and started shaking, and then ran down the backstairs.' Mary informed him.

The man frowned. 'Mary, Sybil, that was inconsiderate,' they looked at him, 'The man's just been injured in a war! He'd only just arrived. The last thing he needed was you two jumping at him for news!'

One girl looked down. 'But I only –'

'All right, I know you didn't mean to do anything, but I'd have expected more thought from you two.'

'Sorry, I suppose I was hasty.'

'And me.'

They both looked chastised. Then Sybil asked 'Are you going to find him?'

'Find him?'

'He's not a servant any more, Father.'

He considered this. 'Yes, I suppose he's a guest now. I should go and talk to him. I've hardly been a good host so far.'

Lord Grantham sighed again. The things he had to do.

XXX

Slowly, he picked his way down the servant's staircase, feeling extremely out-of-place. A housemaid started coming up the stairs, and stopped in shock when she saw the master of the house in the servant's quarters.

'My Lord?'

'Oh, don't mind me, err…. Pretend I'm not here.'

'Err… yes, my Lord.'

She scurried away. He resisted the urge to sigh again.

At the bottom of the stairs he found an entrance to the kitchen, and a cellar door. There. Thomas must have gone into the kitchen. He'd be fine with the other staff. He'd just make sure he was there and go back to his study. Fast.

Everyone turned and stood up when he entered the room. He waved them down.

'Err… hello, don't worry, I'm just checking Thomas is all right – he is here, isn't he?' Blank faces. Bates spoke up.

'He's arrived at the house, my Lord.'

'Ah, yes, but is he here in the kitchen?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh… right. Well, thank you, Bates, I'll just go and… yes…' He left his bemused staff sat there as he left the room.

Where could Thomas have gone?

Then he saw the cellar door.

Oh, bother. Why him?

Eventually he opened the door of the cellar carefully, frowning at the way it made dust go everywhere like a miniature hurricane.

He saw Thomas's face, cast in the widening slit of light, turn towards him, and it was a hateful look, one who loathed him completely.

It struck Lord Grantham that he didn't really know his staff at all. This was nothing like the cool, condescending footman he remembered. This was a man, upset and overwhelmed.

Reluctantly, he got into the small cellar, next to the maturing wine, trying not to think about how dirty and unhealthy this place was. Thomas didn't look at him, except to glance up once and glare.

'Right, well… Thomas.' No reply. No reaction.

'Listen, you probably don't want to be here at Downton, but you should know… Thomas, are you listening?' Still nothing.

'_Thomas?_' He was met with silence, 'Thomas… can you hear me?'

Hesitantly, Lord Grantham half patted, half tapped his arm. The ex-footman looked up at him, hastily attaching a supercilious expression.

The elder man gestured towards his ears in a questioning manner. The other gazed at him for a long time, almost scornfully, then suddenly he looked resigned and nodded. He rested his head on his hands.

'Oh.'

The Lord indicated the entrance to the cellar. Should they leave? Thomas shook his head. He patted the younger man's knee, attempting to be reassuring. Then he waited.

Thomas seemed to take a deep breath, and then nodded, whether to himself, or to him, wasn't obvious.

They got up and emerged into the light, covered in dust. At the same moment Carson came by and looked taken aback at the two of them coming out of the cellar.

'My Lord, err…?'

'Ah, Carson. Can you accompany Thomas to his room? Thank you. He's deaf.'

A flicker of surprise and realisation fluttered over the butler's face, but it quickly left.

'Yes, sir.'

XXX

Thomas was back in his room. Again. He sighed. He was covered in dust, but he didn't have many spare clothes. He'd have to bear it.

Suddenly he noticed a cup of tea on the mantelpiece. Who had left that for him? Thomas had supposed everyone would ignore him downstairs.

He picked it up. Still warm. He almost smiled at this unexpected act of kindness, and took a sip.

He spat it back out. The tea was full of salt.

-_Hi, Ok. Right. Thanks to those who reviewed, and those who put this story on alert. It makes it easier to continue a story, knowing that people are reading it. Oh, also, constructive criticism would be good, I'm trying to improve. And for those of you who know these, this story might have nods to Saving Private Ryan, The Regeneration Trilogy and Upstairs Downstairs. If I accidentally steal something from them, give me a shout. Thanks!_

_Next chapter: Sybil DOES get a surprise, and Gwen finds an odd way to talk about life privately. _


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Thomas woke up and stared at the ceiling as he thought over the first day back at Downton. It was… not good. Not just not good, pretty disastrous. Someone downstairs obviously hated him, and put salt in his tea, whether as revenge for what he did before the war or some other reason, he didn't know.

Slowly, he got up and went to the window briefly. The back yard was covered in a slight frost, looking like crystals that crunched and broke when touched. Evidently the cold spell had no intention of leaving with the arrival of March.

A sudden vivid recollection of Christmas Day in the trenches flashed behind his eyes. He'd been preparing firearms before a battle, when the distant sound of singing reached his ears.

Thomas stopped, wondering if some other soldiers were being particularly festive. Eventually he recognised the tune, and went back to work whilst humming along in his head slightly. He was shivering badly; he'd had to get rid of his vest when lice got into it. Slowly, the singing got louder until a new song started, and Thomas realised something.

'_Stille nacht, heilige nacht...'_

German? What on… More singing, this time much closer.

'_All is calm, all is bright…'_

'_Nur das traute hockhelige Paar…' _

'_Holy infant so tender and mild…'_

Were they… no, it was ridiculous…. Were they singing with the Germans?

Finally he left his duties just as Matthew rushed over. 'It's a Christmas truce, Thomas; we're going into No Man's Land. Not to fight, to… talk.'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on and look!'

He followed Matthew and found that, indeed, soldiers from both sides were going over the top without fear, even singing carols. The two languages mixed in a haunting, strange, beautiful way.

'Is that real?'

'Of course it's real. I think we should go over.'

After a moment's hesitation, he was right behind his friend as they clambered onto No Man's Land. This was surreal, unbelievable. Thomas was still tense, expecting a bullet to fly at him at any minute.

He watched from the side lines as slowly, carefully, the Allies and the Entente mixed and spoke, and finally something in the air broke and laughter rippled through the air, crude attempts at German or English, exchanging presents.

'What is name yours?' Thomas jumped as a thickly-accented voice spoke beside him, and was left momentarily stunned. It was an enemy soldier, weathered and stout. Fighting all his instinctive reactions, he finally replied: 'Thomas. My name is Thomas. What about you?'

'Sorry, my English not good. My name Adelbert.'

There was a few second's silence. The last few bars of the carol rung out.

'_Jesus, Lord at thy birth,'_

'_Christ, in deiner Geburt!'_

'Most beautiful,' commented Adelbert.

'Yes.'

'It is Christmas. Let us gift.'

Gift? He had nothing. How on Earth could he give anything worth having?

'Here.' Thomas looked and saw his companion hold out buttons to him. For some reason, he felt ridiculously touched at this simple gesture for no real reason. There they were, both with nothing, both likely to die tomorrow, and they were celebrating Christmas with buttons.

He smiled gently and took them. 'Thank you. Now, what can I give?' Adelbert smiled as he patted his pockets in desperation. Err… how awkward. Then his fingers touched a bottle of whisky he had per chanced to get.

'How about this? Drink?' The German took it and downed some mouthfuls. Then he laughed and handed it back. 'Danku… eh, thank you.'

'What a Christmas.'

'Yes.'

BANG.

Everyone turned. An Allied soldier close to the German trenches fell as blood blossomed on him. A German saw everyone look, and seemed to regret what he'd done. An official went over to him and grabbed him.

'_Was machst du?' _he hissed, '_Bist du verr__ü__ckt?' _

'Er war zu schlieβen!'

'Nimm ihn an die Allierten!'

The memory left as abruptly as it had arrived. Thomas shook his head slightly and turned back.

Was he meant to go to the staff kitchen for breakfast? Supposedly. Oh, bother. He really didn't want to have to face the other servants. Would they hate him? Probably. Everyone would glare and… oh, this was going to be awkward.

Quickly he got changed and after some deliberation he reluctantly opened the door, and almost stepped on a tray right outside.

Phew. He didn't have to go anywhere. His breakfast had been brought to him. Thomas looked down the empty corridor and then brought the tray into his room.

Luckily, the meal was unharmed, even if the water tasted somewhat salty. He left that and concentrated on the rest.

Afterwards, he decided that he couldn't just spend all day in his room, much as he wanted to. His melancholy about being back where he started hadn't left, but to be honest he'd feel the same everywhere in this town, so he might as well get out.

Ah. Just one problem. He had to go through the kitchen to leave. Perhaps staying there wasn't such a bad idea…

No, he really did have to get out. The pale indifferent walls were driving him mad for no real reason. He'd have to hope no-one was in the kitchen, like O'Brien, Daisy, or Bates…. Oh damn. Bates.

Thomas thought he might try walking around the grounds. He guessed he could, seeing as he was no longer a staff member. Then again, neither was he a member of the upstairs household… oh, hang that, he was going round the grounds anyway.

Unwillingly he bobbed down the stairs, painfully aware of how he couldn't hear the customary creak on the third step down. Briefly he glanced at the cellar door before taking a deep breath and entering the kitchen.

Evidently all the others had just finished their first meal and got on with their duties, because there was only one person there.

Bates.

He looked up as the younger man entered, face down and hidden by the hair that would usually have been slicked back neatly. Actually, it was longer than usual. When was the last time he'd got a haircut?

Thomas could feel Bates' inspecting gaze as he quickly headed for the back door. He supposed everyone knew he was deaf now. And not talking. Deaf-and-dumb. He hated that title, from the first time a medic on the Front had used it.

Finally he was out of the back door. He slowly wandered round past the front of the house, not quite feeling in place, and then walked towards the trees.

XXX

I hate Thomas. I do. He's a horrible human being who manipulates people to get what he wants, I thought as I dusted the mantelpiece. He doesn't deserve to be given a room here, no-one deserves to have to have him back in our lives.

Last time, he drove everyone mad. Look what he did to Daisy – pretending to be fond of her so they'd gang up on William. Really evil, that was. Not mentioning what he did to Bates: trying to blame him for the missing wine!

I don't understand why he's so horrible. He's not exactly got much to complain about, has he? Well, if he tries anything this time, I'm giving him an earful. Although he is deaf, Carson says. Oh, what does it matter; deaf, blind, he's still Thomas.

I'm sure he hasn't changed a bit.

XXX

Gwen looked at her typewriter, sitting calmly on the table. It was amazing, it really was. She'd just come back from dusting and cleaning the upstairs bedrooms with Anna, and she thought she might do some typewriting practise before lunch.

She'd got the job, but she wasn't to start working for a few weeks. Her employer said she should spend some time getting 'the motor skills' together, like typing. It was so exciting, wasn't it? A proper serious job.

Cheerfully, she sat down to begin typing, but immediately she found a problem. The table was too wobbly. She tried to put paper under a leg to keep it still but it kept shaking back and forth.

Ah, well, who wanted to work inside anyway? It was a beautiful frosty day, if she put on a coat she would be fine outside. It would be easier than fighting with dodgy tables, anyway. She should go to the trees at the back of the gardens – even though she wasn't allowed there, the trees hid her so she could usually get away with being there for a short while.

Being extremely careful, she lifted up the typewriter and carried it cautiously to the bottom of the stairs and through the kitchen, waiting for Bates' footsteps to fade away before she appeared. There she grabbed her coat, hastily put it on, and went around the back of the house to the gardens, and subsequently to the trees.

Good. No-one had seen her.

She went to sit down under a tree with her machine, but when she looked up she jumped about a metre in the air.

Thomas was sat one tree forward, looking lost in thought. He hadn't seen her…. Or heard her? No, he couldn't hear, Gwen remembered, and was struck by the fact. She wanted to test it.

'Thomas?'

Absolutely no sign that he had heard her. How interesting. She could say anything, and he wouldn't know. He didn't even know she was here. Unless he looked behind him, he'd never guess.

'Are you sure you can't hear me?... Evidently not. Thomas? Thomas! Nothing. You really are deaf, aren't you? So why on earth am I talking? I don't know. This is odd. _Tho-mas. _It's quite good. Perhaps I'll talk to you. Why not, after all?'

What on earth was she doing? She was chattering away to a deaf man. But, weird as it was, she was actually quite getting into it. Something about the fact that he was a real person but he could say anything and he would 'listen' and not be judgmental.

'I'm practising for my job. Need to get really good at typing, you see? I hope I do the job well. Can't wait to start. A few weeks only till I start. Everyone's dead happy. They love the typewriter. Anna was trying to type. You'd laugh, you would.

'Lady Sybil's being very activist with woman's rights; she got into it ever since that woman, Emily Davison, ran onto the Derby last year. D'you hear about that? I don't know what I think about votes for women. Well, I daresay my opinion wouldn't matter anyhow.'

'So, I was thinking about – '

She stopped her insane babble as Thomas got up slowly. Gwen was hidden by some leaves, so she didn't worry much about being seen. She noticed how different Thomas looked with his hair not combed back. More human, somehow.

Anyway, him getting up reminded her that she should get back in a minute. She couldn't afford to stay in the grounds long. Work to be done and all that. Two minutes after her companion walked away she picked herself up and followed.

XXX

Thomas started walking back to the house as the temperature dropped slightly, but stopped in dismay as he saw Lady Mary and Lady Sybil approaching for a second time. Were they going to try and apologise for yesterday? How embarrassing.

This time they were much more composed, and Sybil started gesturing, before looking at his face of incomprehension and pulling paper and a pencil out of her pocket (to Mary's surprise) and showing him an elegantly written note.

_Do you have news of Matthew or Branson? _

He looked at their familiar expectant faces, and gradually nodded. Their faces lit up as he reached into a jacket pocket and came out with a letter, characterised by Matthew's rounded handwriting on the front.

Mary started to reach for it happily, but he pulled it away, shaking his head, and handed Matthew's letter to Sybil.

As their faces contrasted, confusion and anger, he left.

XXX

'Eh, Daisy?' Mrs Patmore said, 'Leave those meringues a minute.'

'What is it?'

'I've got a secret.'

'Is it about the ghost?'

'Ah, it is, as well. I saw it again.'

'Again!'

'A black hunched figure, pacing round and round the back yard. I could almost hear it groaning… yes, it's true. You believe me, don't you?'

'Of course, Mrs Patmore.'

'I think you and me, we should do a bit of ghost-hunting.'

'Ghost-hunting?'

'Aye. You're not scared, are you?'

'N-no, Mrs Patmore.'

'Good. We'll discuss it later. But have you seen the state of those meringues? Come on, Daisy, chop chop!'

_-A/N, And, it's me again. Hello! Sooo… Sybil's suddenly got a letter from Matthew, eh? Right, I'd better hurry, there's homework I've been neglecting. Thanks loads for the reviews and the people who put this story on alert. _

_Translation of German: 'What are you doing?...Are you crazy?' 'He was too close.' 'Take him to the Allies.' _

_Next chapter: The Dowager Countess gets involved with Thomas's injury and something surprising happens at the piano. _


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

'Anyway, listen to this. I was upstairs in Her Ladyship's quarters and I happened to hear them talking about a new maid.'

'What, are they going to fire someone?'

'Who's leaving?' Anna asked. In the corner, O'Brien pinched her cigarette and then tapped it nervously.

'Oh no, nothing like that. I think that they don't want to overburden the maids, what with some of the staff fighting.'

'Oh, I see. So, would she be just temporary, until the end of the war?'

'I suppose. Of course, let's not gossip. We shouldn't make assumptions. It's the Lord and Lady's business, not ours.'

'It's our business if she's coming to work with us.'

'Yes, but not for long. Just for a short time – until the war's over.'

'So I was right.'

'All right girls, enough of that.'

'I hope William goes deaf. Fighting, I mean.'

'Daisy! That's a ghastly thing to say!'

'No, you see, if he goes deaf then he can come back to Downton, and he won't be, you know, limbless or anything.'

'So you're saying you want him to get an injury that doesn't affect him physically.'

'Yes, see, then it's not that bad.'

'No.'

'Yeah, see-'

'No, every injury is just as bad. It doesn't matter if someone can't walk or if they just… can't talk, it's still taking away an important part of your life.'

'That was rather deep, that was.'

'It's true.'

'Right, that was the study bell ringing, I'd better go.'

Slowly, Thomas entered the room. Anna, Daisy, Carson, Gwen and O'Brien all looked up. He kept his gaze down and stood awkwardly in the corner. It was a very different atmosphere around him, a contrast from the old him striding in proudly and with his head up. Now he walked faster, and stared at the floor.

Eventually, Carson and Gwen went back to what they were doing. The man nudged Daisy, who had been staring in fascination, and she left abruptly. Anna glared, and then left. O'Brien just watched him.

Even Thomas could identify the second sort of silence in the room, even with his deafness. Not hearing anything was different from no-one saying anything.

And it was awkward.

Very… awkward.

XXX

Sybil sat on her bed, Matthew's letter in hand. It was slightly battered, war-worn. This was… unexpected. It wasn't right. She wasn't sure she wanted it.

Obviously, she'd wondered. What it would, you know, be like. But something was a bit wrong about this, and quite frankly she didn't know what she should do.

She could trust it. Believe it. Enjoy it. But that would cause such chaos she didn't want to think about it. The easy way was the hardest way.

Or, Sybil could ignore it. Wait for an explanation. Trust her instincts. There had to be reason other than that. Perhaps she had interpreted it wrongly…. But that hardly seemed likely.

For now, it was probably better not to think about it. After all, there was no guarantee that he'd ever come back.

XXX

Mrs Hughes hurried into the room, looking very flustered and shocked. Carson stood up suddenly, his chair scraping painfully on the floor.

'Mrs Hughes, are you all right?'

'Oh, yes, well, no, you see…'

'Come, sit down, calm yourself.'

She fell into a chair and brushed some hair away from her face, quickly composing herself.

'Now, whatever is the matter?'

'Oh, well, you see, you know how I'm going back to playing the piano? Well, I was playing just a small piece when Thomas came in, with a face of thunder, and he just – flew at me. It was like he'd gone mad. I can't think what got into him.'

Carson patted her, frowning. 'That is odd, I wonder if…'

'Yes?'

Bates entered the room, smiling slightly. He stopped when he saw Carson with his hand on Mrs Hughes shoulder. 'I beg your pardon, I'll just…' He turned to leave.

'No, no, Bates, nothing like that!'

'Ah.' He came in and settled down.

'Oddest thing,' Mrs Hughes said, 'Thomas attacked me when I was playing the piano.'

'Oh, are you hurt?'

'No, I'm quite well; he merely pushed me away from it before I left.'

'The little-'Carson almost bristled.

'Oh, I'm a tough old stick, you two, no need for such fuss.'

Bates looked thoughtful, and twiddled his cane a couple of times as he mused.

'You say he attacked you at the piano?'

'Yes, he did.'

'Isn't he deaf?'

'Yes, why? What are you thinking?'

But the ex-soldier got up and headed to the exit. 'Is he in his room?'

'I suppose so, why?'

'I'll have a word.'

'Oh, that's really not – '

'Mrs Hughes? It really is.'

And he left.

XXX

Outside Thomas' door, he realised that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. Obviously he was a person Thomas definitely did not want to see, but that didn't matter. Perhaps he could get through to him. They'd both been in a war, after all.

Anna was angry at Thomas. She thought he didn't deserve to come back. He realised that this was probably due to the time when he and O'Brien had tried to frame Bates. It was quite sweet, her loyalty. However, Bates occasionally thought there was something more to Thomas. Perhaps he was wrong, and the ex-footman really was just a horrible person. But once he wasn't so mean.

He realised Thomas had expected to be promoted to valet, and had reason to be bitter when instead the job was given to, as he put it, 'a cripple.' He thought he could just about understand that.

And when the Duke arrived, something odd had happened there. Bates didn't know what had happened that night, but Thomas had changed. For good.

Abruptly the door opened, when he'd given no indication that he was there. Perhaps his shadow.

Thomas looked up and a series of expressions crossed his face. Eventually he sighed silently, and Bates stepped into the room without invitation.

'You've got to stop this- 'he began, and remembered that he couldn't be heard, seeing Thomas glare at him. And that glare told him everything.

Thomas resented his injury. He resented the fact that everyone could talk, and he was shut out in his old world. He hated being able to see sound but not hear it. Seeing a piano being played right in front of him but not hearing it must have killed him.

And for once, Bates didn't think he could do anything. He wasn't the right person for this.

And so he left.

XXX

Mrs Hughes stood up as the bell for Her Lady's quarters rang. She quickly bustled to the upstairs bedroom and found Her Ladyship staring out of the window with a distant and sad look on her face. Quietly she cleared her throat.

'Milady,' she said. Lady Crawley snapped out of her reverie and turned.

'Ah, Mrs Hughes, could you make the bed? The other maids are busy.'

'Of course, milady.'

'Thank you.'

'So tell me, how are things downstairs?'

'Well, err…'

'What, is something wrong?'

'Oh, nothing. Don't worry, Your Ladyship.'

'If you say so. And how is Thomas? Doing well?'

'Well, some of the staff are a little annoyed at his return. And he doesn't seem to be coping with deafness well. But, if you don't mind me saying so, perhaps that's to be expected.'

'I suppose. Oh well, poor Thomas. I hope he gets better soon. Dreadful war we're having.'

'Indeed it is, milady.'

'Still, everyone says it'll be over by Christmas, and I do hope they're right.'

'I can't see it lasting very long myself, milady.'

'Quite.'

Lord Grantham swept into the room, followed by the Dowager Countess of Grantham, who sneered at the electric light in the room before settling down proudly.

'Hello, Cora darling.' Robert went over to her.

'Oh, skip the sentiment, Robert.' Violet Crawley snapped. He sighed.

'Mother wants us to call Matthew out of the war.'

'He's the only heir! We can't have him dying in a puddle of mud. Honestly, who let him go in the first place?'

'We can't pull him out! He chose to go. He'd refuse to return. You're being unreasonable, Mother.'

'You sound like you want him to die.'

'Don't be preposterous, of course I don't want him to die. But you have to understand that we don't control him!'

'We'll see about that.' She sniffed. Cora scowled at her.

'You can't bring him back, Violet.'

She ignored Cora.

'Anyway, dear, I was thinking perhaps we should hire a psychologist.'

'A psychologist? What on earth for?'

'Thomas.'

'I thought there was nothing wrong with him mentally?'

'No, but he's been acting very oddly. He refuses to speak-'

'He's deaf.'

'-and first thing he does when he arrives is run into the cellar!'

'He was overwhelmed.'

'Maybe, but he could be suffering from one of those odd trauma things that doctors whittle on about these days.'

'I think he's fine.'

'Even so-'

'Robert,' Violet interrupted, 'there's no need. I'll cure him.'

'You?'

'I am chairwoman of the hospital, Robert. Close your mouth. You look like a fish.'

'Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I don't think he's traumatised – '

'Stop talking. I don't just mean his mental state; I mean his deafness as well. Bring him to me.'

'Now?'

'Well, why do you think I'm asking?'

'Mrs Hughes, do you think you can bring Thomas here?'

'Straight away, milord.'

XXX

The black-haired man entered warily, avoiding everyone's gaze, and particularly Lord Grantham's. He seemed ready to leap out the room at any minute.

'Thomas,' Violet Crawley said. He didn't react.

'Thomas!' She said it louder. Cora frowned.

'Don't be ridiculous, Violet, can't you see he's deaf?'

'I know that! Don't you think I know my own profession, girl?' She indicated the seat in front of her to Thomas. He looked at her, and then sat down. She brandished a notebook from nowhere and wrote in big spindly letters: _What is wrong with you?_

'You know what's wrong with him!'

Violet handed the man the notebook. Quickly he scrawled a reply.

**I can't hear anything.**

_Why won't you speak?_

He shrugged.

_That is hardly an answer._

He shrugged again.

_How long have you been deaf?_

**I don't know. A week and half. **

_And you've heard nothing since then?_

**No, I already said. **

'Mother, what is the point of all this? You're just repeating what you know,' interjected Lord Grantham.

'I need information. Do you want me to do this thoroughly or not?'

'Of course.'

'Then be quiet.'

_Are you able to speak?_

**Yes.**

_Prove it._

**No. **

_-A/N Hello, me again. Hope you like this chapter, it took ages to finish because I kept getting distracted by other things…. *cough*fanfiction*cough.* Anyway, thanks for the reviews, they're great! _

_Next chapter: The battle between Violet Crawley and Isobel Crawley is about to begin. _


	6. Chapter 6

'She's planning to wear a suit, you know. I suppose it's good, she's standing up for what she believes in, but it just feels a little extreme.'

Gwen sat with her typewriter, Thomas once more unaware that someone was using him as a diary behind him. A cold sun shone through the trees like cold white glass as she chattered almost naturally whilst she practised her typing. It might have seemed odd to any other person, but it was nice to be able to muse over the day at will.

'I mean, that's just my opinion, but I was never the sort of person to make a stand. So she's awfully brave.

'I don't know if I'll be good enough for this job, really. I'm practising so hard to try and type well enough, but I keep making mistakes and I'm sure I'm not fast enough! But I suppose I'll have to stop worrying, it's worth a try. Lady Sybil is so kind for helping me.

'You know, Daisy says that she saw Carson and Mrs Hughes together the other day, looking…cosy, to say the least. Imagine what it would be like if they paired up. Now there's an odd image.

'Mrs Hughes says the Dowager Countess wants to pull Mr Crawley out of the war. Can't afford to lose him, apparently. I don't think she'll manage to do it though. He seems the sort who'd refuse to return. Patriotic like.'

Abruptly Thomas got up, fiddling with his hat. Gwen shuffled to the side, behind a bush, to wait until he had left. At least real diaries weren't liable to get up and take off at some unexpected moment.

As he began to walk off, he suddenly stumbled to the side and put a hand out against a tree to stop himself. That was odd, Gwen thought. Thomas himself looked fairly annoyed. Probably there'd been a hidden rock or hole. Anyway, never mind that.

Eventually the soldier disappeared from sight and the girl relaxed again. If anyone else knew about her little outpourings, they'd think she was completely crazy. Perhaps she was.

XXX

Daisy sighed as washed plates in the empty kitchen. She was thinking of William, terrified of the thought of him in the trenches. How could he possibly survive? She'd snuck looks at the newspaper Carson brought in, and from what she could gather there were hundreds dying every day. It wasn't normal. She didn't understand why people would go to war; it just made lots of people unhappy. How could it possibly solve anything?

Daisy was also disappointed. When she'd heard Thomas was coming back, she'd assumed he'd bring news from William. A letter maybe, with… you know, maybe a mention of her. For her. A letter for her… well, it was probably a stupid thing to have assumed. Of course there wouldn't be a letter for her, why on earth would there be? William didn't care about her. There had been no letter, no news, no nothing. The thought made her bottom lip tremble and her eyes water.

Why hadn't Thomas brought something? She'd been so hopeful, and all for nothing. If Thomas hadn't come, if he hadn't got injured, she wouldn't have been so disappointed. It was his fault…. It… it was…

She turned to start drying the plates, lost in thought, when she heard some muted talking from outside. Looking up, she saw Bates and Anna through the window. They looked very close and seemed to be having a serious conversation.

Anna said something, and Daisy couldn't see Bates because he had his back to the window, but he pulled back and moved slightly. Anna looked sympathetic and sad, and after a while the two parted. Daisy wondered what they had been talking about.

Probably _adult stuff. _Things that she _wouldn't understand. _She suddenly felt very bitter. Everyone seemed to think she was a little girl who didn't know about anything, who had to be guided. _Stupid little maid. _She wasn't a little girl, poor little innocent girl. She wanted to do something grown-up. Something _bad. _Then she'd be interesting. People wouldn't ignore her; she'd be mature and grown-up.

SMASH.

In a fit of delicious anger she dropped the plate on the ground. It cracked and broke with a tremendous crash, scattered over the floor, and left a ringing silence.

Daisy stopped. The euphoric feeling of being bad suddenly left. This wasn't the way to do it, this was the way to lose a job. She looked around, but no-one had come, so she assumed no-one had heard. What should she do? There'd be hell to pay if Mrs Patmore found out. This was _terrible. _

Trembling slightly, she got a towel and wrapped up all the fragments she could find, but she didn't know what to do with them after that. Looking around in increasing panic, she finally rushed to the cellar and shoved the towel and plate pieces behind a crate of wine. Hopefully nobody would see it.

She went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table, feeling shaky. She couldn't be bad like that, that was stupid. She wanted to be subtle, the good kind of bad.

XXX

Mary got up and walked around her room again. She was nervous and shocked. Why would Matthew write to Sybil? What could he possibly want from her sister? Why hadn't he written to _her? _

Obviously he couldn't have thought things were over between them at that horrible garden party? Matthew couldn't have possibly meant what he said.

Could he?

It was no use, she simply had to know what was in that letter. Sybil was being terrible, not telling her what it said. Why would she do that?

Of course, she wouldn't obsess over the letter. And she _needed _to know what it said, you know, just to make sure it wasn't serious. And it might be serious, mightn't it? It might say that someone was dead, like, oh, what was the name of that chauffeur Sybil was friends with? Branson. Branson might be dead. And of course Matthew would tell Sybil that. And perhaps Sybil hadn't told anyone because she was too distraught. That would make sense.

So obviously, it was in everyone's best interests that she checked to see what that letter said.

With this thought in mind, Mary quickly got up and opened the door. The hallway was empty. Confidently she strode out and walked down to Sybil's room.

The door was closed, so she knocked. There was no reply. Turning the handle, she went in.

Not bothering with the rest of the room she went straight to the dresser. There was some clutter, mostly jewellery and such, and on top was Matthew's letter.

Sitting down, Mary eased the crinkled paper out of the envelope. The writing was covered in splodges and very creased. Straight out of the war.

When she finished reading it, she stood up, feeling slightly light-headed. That was that, then. That was… that was that, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Quietly she replaced the letter on the dresser, left the room, closing the door behind her, and went downstairs and out into the garden.

XXX

Mrs Crawley was sorting out medicines in the cabinet at the hospital. She and the Doctor were gathering up as much medicine as they could for the next wave of war casualties. They were running out of space as well.

Every month they would receive a wave of injured soldiers, distributed to various hospitals and clinics across the country. Pretty soon, they'd be separated into three sections. The first was for the more minor injuries, the ones who were easily and/or quickly treatable, and the ones who didn't need a bed for whatever reason. The second was for those with serious but easily treatable illnesses and injuries, and the third was for long-term patients, the most seriously injured ones who may never recover.

By the end of the month they had discharged all the first section and most of the second, but after a few months the hospital would be full of dying patients.

Doctor Clarkson was sorting out patient's files at a table on the other side of the room. He seemed very tired, poor soul, working all day and night. Isobel wished he could have just a few days off, the man seemed so very exhausted.

Suddenly Violet Crawley flounced into the room, looking overly confident.

'What _has _been going on?' she asked, 'There seem to be dead people practically carpeting the hallways. Interesting decorum, I must admit, but personally –'

'You know perfectly well we're getting more patients than we have beds,' Isobel replied briskly, 'and to be honest it would be nice if you turned up more often. We need more hands.'

'I turn up when I can. There are many duties one must perform as a Dowager Countess, I'm not sure you're aware.'

'Well –'

'And besides, I have my own patient.'

'Gosh, you make it sound like you have a pet.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Hang on; you said you had a patient?'

'At Downton, yes. Ex-butler or footman or whatever it was he did.'

'Why isn't he here?'

'How on earth should I know? Anyway, he's deaf and refusing to speak.'

'He's from the trenches?'

'Yes, obviously.'

'Well, whatever is he doing at Downton? Bring him to the hospital; we'll be able to cure him in an instant.'

'_I _was doing perfectly.'

'I don't care how you were tormenting him.'

'Tormenting him? I was curing him of his deafness?'

'His deafness?'

'Yes, that is what I said. Are you deaf?'

'Well, you said he couldn't talk. That sounds psychological. Why on earth don't you deal with that first? The hearing might come back anyway.'

'Don't be ridiculous – it's a physical injury that needs curing before you get him speaking.'

'Right, that's it. Bring him here now.'

XXX

Thomas scowled as he entered the hospital. He wasn't a damn invalid. Now he was being examined in Mrs Crawley's office like a new interesting specimen.

Isobel sat him down on the chair and looked at him. Then she got a scrap piece of paper from a drawer and picked up a pen. Thomas got a sense of déjà vu.

_Hello, _she wrote, _I'm Isobel Crawley. _

**I know.**

_What's your name? _

Oh brilliant, they don't even think to ask for names before the patient has arrived. He was just a nobody, a test subject in a hospital.

**Thomas Merrick**

_Nice to meet you. Now, I hear that you're deaf._

**Oh haha. **

_Oh, sorry! No pun intended. _

**Of course I'm deaf, why would we be writing if I wasn't? **

_You also can't speak. _

**I can. **

_Then why won't you?_

He shrugged.

**Why does everyone keep asking me the same questions?**

_Because you won't give them answers. _

**Then they should stop asking.**

_We'd never get anywhere that way._

**I thought you were going to cure me, not argue about questions.**

_I am going to treat you. I'm just dealing with the psychological effects first._

**There's nothing wrong with me psychologically!**

_You went to war._

**I'm not mad. **

_I never said you were. I realise this is a difficult time and you feel very isola –_

He ripped the paper away from her as she was writing.

**You don't know anything, you doctors. I'm not mad, I'm just deaf and I DON'T someone trying to psychoanalyse me. **

_Perhaps._

She got up and picked up a small notebook from the mantelpiece. It had red covers and fitted in a pocket.

_I want you to take this notebook and write in it over the week. Any negative emotions, nightmares, or things that remind you of the war. Just express yourself. Can you do that for me?_

**I'm not a girl. I don't need to write about my woes in sickening detail. **

_It's not girly at all. It'll help you feel better. _

**I AM NOT MAD.**

Nonetheless, she handed him the notebook and sent him back to Downton. Isobel had a feeling he might be suffering from one of those mind traumatic disorders – what was the name? PTSD. She didn't know very much about it, but it was about people who've suffered a great trauma. And he'd been to war, hadn't he?

XXX

Mrs Patmore sat Daisy down at the table, who looked at her with huge eyes. She had found the plate, hadn't she? Daisy was going to be sacked, everyone would hate her and think she was stupid and horrible she-

'Tuesday.' Mrs Patmore announced.

'Sorry?'

'We'll catch the ghost on Tuesday evening. You remember the ghost, don't you?'

'Yes Mrs Patmore.'

'We'll bring a net.'

'Yes Mrs Patmore.'

'Be in the kitchen on Tuesday night at eleven.'

'Yes Mrs Patmore.'

'We're going to do ourselves some ghost hunting!'

_-And, I'm back. Sorry for the delay, I didn't have time to finish this last week and I keep getting cut off from the computer mid-flow. Thanks loads and loads for the reviews, they're really awesome! _


	7. Chapter 7

"Hello, please, sit down." Lord Grantham greeted the lady as she walked confidently into the study, holding her purse and tossing her coat to Carson. She perched on the end of a chair and looked up at him expectantly. She had short brown hair in a bob haircut and cool brown eyes. She wore a brown dress, brown shoes, and brown gloves. She was very brown.

Outside the sky was a pasty grey-white colour, one giant cloud. Wind scuttled around the trees and they hissed at the movement. Occasionally the windows rattled slightly. Inside a grandfather clock ticked calmly in the quiet study.

"Would you like a drink?" he offered.

"No thank you. I'm here to apply for the job as another housemaid," she told him with a smooth cold voice. He sat down in another chair.

"Yes, indeed. I'll get right to the questions, shall I?" He pressed on without waiting for a reply, "Well, what is your name?"

"Sarah Sharpe." She enunciated each word with harsh clarity.

"And your age?"

"Thirty-five."

"Date of birth?"

"Second of July eighteen seventy-nine."

"And what previous jobs have you had?"

"I have been a lady's maid before, and a secretary."

"Why did you leave those jobs?"

"The house at which I was lady's maid was overemployed, and the other job had a schedule with which I couldn't work."

"I see. Where are you from?"

"Dorset."

"What brings you so far North?"

"I heard there were more vacancies. And good pay."

"What makes you think you're right for the job?"

"I have experience, and work in an organised manner. I can manage lots of work."

"I see. Any criminal records?"

"No. No medical records either."

"Completed education?"

"Yes."

He reeled off some more standard questions and took down a few noted before standing up.

"Well, I'll have to get back to you, Miss Sharpe, but you sound completely capable for the job to me."

"I'm sure. Thank you, Lord Grantham. I'll find my own way out, shall I?"

She walked out briskly, and after a minute he heard the door slam. How abrupt.

XXX

Daisy lay in bed, thinking about the day. So far nobody had found the broken plate. She'd gotten away with it. The thought was scary but brilliant all at once. She could get away with things. She didn't have to do it all right.

So what could she do next?

The idea was poisonous, but she didn't care. It made her feel adult. This is what adults did. They could do whatever they wanted. And she wasn't a child, she had to prove it. But how?

Suddenly she heard a gasp, and sat up in bed, terrified. _What was that? Who was…. What if it was the ghost Mrs Patmore had seen? _It was here, in her room! What should she do?

Daisy sat there, paralysed, holding her breath as she listened intently, too terrified to move a muscle.

Nothing. She scanned the darkness with wide eyes but nothing happened. It was probably her imagination. Not a ghost. She hoped.

Eventually, after much deliberation, she slowly lay down again, closing her eyes and trying to fall asleep before she scared herself again.

_Sleep… sleep…_

"Don't!"

She sat up again at lightning speed, barely containing a shriek of fear. What was that? She _definitely _had not imagined that. Fumbling, she lit the lamp beside her bed and stared around the room in horror. Was there something in there with her? Was it the ghost?

It had sounded like a man's voice…maybe one of the others was sneaking out? Once again she sat stock still and listened out for another sound.

For a while there was silence, then she heard distinct muttering from the room next door. Slowly Daisy got up and treaded carefully over to the wall, putting her ear against it. What was going on in there?

The muttering stopped again and then started again. It seemed to come and go abruptly. Probably someone talking in their sleep. Brilliant.

For the second time she prepared to go to back to bed, but before she could a choked sob stopped her. Was something wrong?

Not sure what to do, she crept out of her room and ran to Anna and Gwen's room, heart beating as she scuttled across the dark corridor. Nervously, she tried the door handle and found it unlocked. Daisy crept in, looking at the dark shadows everywhere.

One of the girls on the bed sat up groggily, staring at the crack of light the door had brought in.

"Daisy?" she said. It was Gwen. "What is it?"

Daisy stuttered "There's somethin' happenin' in Thomas' room. I can 'ear like, mutterin' like."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Can you… can you…"

"All right, I'll go and check. Sure it's nothing."

Gwen reluctantly clambered out of bed as Anna continued to sleep. The two girls padded over to Thomas' room and stood there awkwardly. They couldn't exactly knock, could they?

Gently Gwen tried to turn the handle, and slowly opened the door.

XXX

Carson tossed and finally opened his eyes. Well, he evidently wasn't getting any sleep that night. Oh well. He turned his lamp on and picked up his book, deciding to while away the hours by reading. But before he could get started he heard a slight commotion outside in the corridor.

Why were people outside at this time of the night? They'd better not be drinking. He got up and opened the door, holding the lamp, planning on telling whoever was outside to scarper.

He turned and saw Gwen and Daisy opening the door of one of the rooms at the end of the corridor.

"Gwen? Daisy? Whatever are you doing?"

XXX

Gwen jumped at the sudden voice and span round to see Carson watching them with shock. Bother, how would they explain this?

"Sorry Mr Carson," she whispered, so as not to wake more people, "Daisy says she can 'ear something in Thomas' room. We were just checking, you know…"

The butler seemed on the verge of sending them back to their rooms when there was a sudden stifled shout from inside the room. The three of them opened the door and crept in. Carson held the light uncertainly.

"No, I…. he…. Get away…. Get, don't, I won't… won't, screaming, again…"

Thomas was curled up on the bed, asleep, muttering and occasionally crying out. His hair was matted down with sweat, and the sheets were tangled around him. As Carson approached, his murmuring descended to silence for a moment.

The trio stood there, not knowing quite what to do. Finally Carson spoke up. "Daisy, go back to your room. Now."

The girl looked between them in resignation and eventually darted back to her room, leaving the two older staff there.

There was silence before Thomas suddenly said, crystal clear, "Do they always scream this much, Lieutenant?"

He went back to muttering.

"Because they bleed…. They can't hear, hear, I'm… _he should be dead now, _why's he… still screaming?" An unexpected choked sob, "I saw…. _Jimmy got his face ripped off, _I could… no, don't… he laughed, so they… turned, he's got no face, Sergeant!"

Gwen felt the back of her neck prickle in horror at the haunting words. He was evidently dreaming about the war.

Eventually she turned to Carson, who was watching Thomas with an expression of confusion and surprise. "Aren't you going to wake 'im then?" she said, half pleading.

The older man seemed to snap out of his silence and said gruffly "Yes, of course," before uncomfortably going up to the bed and announcing, "Well, err, wake up Thomas."

"He's deaf!" Gwen snapped.

"I know that!" Carson replied, and reluctantly took Thomas' arm and shook him somewhat violently.

"I don't want… to… d-"The soldier suddenly snapped awake with a gasp and stared around the room in incomprehension. He trembled slightly and then his eyes fixed on Carson. He wrenched his arm away and looked down at the bed sheets. When the butler did not leave, he turned around and ignored him, effectively telling him to leave.

Hesitantly, Carson walked to the doorway and left, muttering to Gwen "I thought he couldn't talk" before leaving.

Gwen stayed in the shadows by the door, out of sight, and waited, but she wasn't sure why. Something about the novelty of seeing the normally so unflappable footman in this state rooted her to the spot.

She heard a laboured breath from the bed, and looked up to see Thomas bury his face in his hands and then run his hands through his hair, shaking slightly. For a split second she thought he was about to start crying, but instead he got up and in a sudden wave of emotion span around and punched the wall hard before sitting back down on the bed and staring at the wall.

Quickly and quietly Gwen fled back to her room, feeling that she'd seen something she shouldn't have. But she knew she'd never see Thomas in the same light.

XXX

Sybil opened the letter once more, reading it for the hundredth time. There must be some catch.

_Dear Sybil,_

_There's no easy way to say this. I don't know what impression I've given, and I'm sorry if it's the wrong one, but there's something you need to know. Ever since the incident at Ripon I've got the feeling that you _[some words blurred] _and I don't want to upset you. Sorry, I'll get to the point. What I mean to say is, _[words blurred] _love you. You're a lovely girl and I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship, but I felt I had to make things clear._

_Hope things are well with you at Downton, _

_Matthew Crawley_

Matthew loved her? That didn't make any sense. He loved Mary. He had to love her. But if he didn't, if the letter was true…. Did Sybil love Matthew?

He was a nice man, honest, friendly, intelligent, and sometimes she did imagine that… that… he and her and were together. But obviously, that was just imagination. She couldn't possibly…

Another image was pushed into her head. An image of a certain Irish chauffeur. No, don't think of that, it was ridiculous. Never going to happen.

She just didn't know what to think any more.

XXX

Mrs Hughes came down to find a rather menacing- looking lady in the kitchen with a small suitcase bearing the initials 'S.S'

"Hello," she said in surprise, "Can I help you?"

The lady took off her gloves briskly and held out a hand, introducing herself in a very proper Southern accent. "I'm the new maid. My name is Sarah Sharpe, you may call me Miss Sharpe."

They shook hands. "Ah, of course, forgive me, Miss Sharpe, we've been quite taken off our feet with work these days. Most of the men are gone, of course. Would you like me to show you to your room?"

Mrs Hughes lead her upstairs and was showing her the way around the corridors when Bates appeared around the corner.

"Ah, Miss Sharpe, this is Mr Bates, his Lordship's valet. Bates, this is Miss Sharpe, our new maid."

There was a long silence as Bates stared at Sarah with something akin to horror on his face. Mrs Hughes frowned. "Have you two met before?"

In unison the other two exclaimed "No" and Sarah suddenly walked over confidently with a rather large smile on her face.

"Hello, Mr Bates, I'm _sure _we'll get on."

She turned back to Mrs Hughes with a markedly more cheerful demeanour. "You were showing me to my room?"

"Oh, of course. This way, if you will…"

XXX

Thomas knocked on the door of Mrs Crawley's office at the time he'd been told to meet. The two older women wanted to meet him weekly so they could use him as a subject for their arguments. Of course, they didn't say that, but it was fairly easy to deduce.

In his hand he held the diary with red covers that he'd been handed last week. Today he didn't plan on staying long.

Finally the door opened and Mrs Crawley appeared, smiling as she saw him. She gestured for him to come in, but he shook his head, putting his hat back on and handing her the diary. Taking it gratefully, she patted him to show her thanks. It was rather patronising. He left.

Mrs Crawley watched him go, wondering what he'd put in the diary. Evidently he didn't want to stay as she read it. Perhaps that was good news. It probably meant he'd written something revealing.

Wandering back into the office, she sat down at the desk and opened the diary, and read the line on the first page.

**I have nothing to say.**

She flicked through the whole book but found all the other pages empty. There was just that one line in black and white.

_I have nothing to say._

-_A/N. Right, me again! So sorry about the delay, my computer died again and then we had internet problems. Sorry! I hope you liked this chapter. Wonder what you all think of Sarah. Anyway, must be off. Thank you for all the reviews, they're awesome. _


	8. Chapter 8

"Now I'm not one to gloat, Mrs Crawley, but in this case I feel the most appropriate words are: I told you so."

The Dowager Countess of Grantham raised her eyebrows with a slight smile at the woman sat across from her. Isobel thought the smile looked unduly smug.

They were sat across a table in the medical office of the hospital. Mrs Crawley had explained what had transpired with the notebook, which sat in between the two of them. The weather was cloudy again. It hung like smog above the housetops, made the sky appear considerably closer to the ground than usual, and gave everything an oppressed feeling.

"I don't mean to criticise your methods, of course," the elder continued, "but perhaps you are not best equipped to deal with subjects such as war."

"Oh, and you are?" She snapped.

"My dear Mrs Crawley, my son fought in the Boer War. _I _am not inexperienced."

"I understand that you have more personal experience, but I am a qualified nurse."

"Yes, but-" Isobel cut through the irritatingly arrogant voice.

"This man has gone to war. Emotional scars are just as important as physical injuries, and there is an obvious link between fighting in a war and developing shell shock, which is what I believe this man has!"

"My dear, is _this," _The Dowager Countess picked up the notebook in front of her and opened it to the line '_I have nothing to say,' _"the sign of someone mentally scarred?"

"In fact, it- "

"This poor man is being treated like a maniac when he has made it abundantly clear he is only physically injured, and therefore that is what we must deal with before we make rash conclusions as to his mental state!"

Mrs Crawley sighed impatiently. "If anything," she said, "If anything, the notebook proves he is suffering from post-war symptoms!"

There was a pause.

"How?"

"He's in denial."

"You're in denial."

"I know what I am saying!"

"So do I. And if you don't pay attention to his deafness now, I will!"

A soft groan filtered through the wall from the next ward. It grew and grew, and then suddenly stopped, making the silence seem ten times thicker. Both women stood up. The Dowager Countess looked distinctly unnerved for a second.

Mrs Crawley opened a drawer and took out a stethoscope. "His heart's been playing up," she said to nobody in particular, "Is that quite all?"

"Yes, I think it is. I hope you will consider what I have said."

"Oh, I shall. Do you need to be shown to the door?"

XXX

Anna wrenched open the door of the cellar, holding back as she waited for the mini hurricane of dust to pass. Brushing off any visible specks from her apron, she was about to go inside when a voice stopped her.

"Don't go in there!"

Daisy was stood behind her, wringing a towel in her hands nervously in the corridor with a stricken expression on her face.

"Daisy?"

"W-Why are you going in there?"

Anna looked at her with puzzlement. "I'm getting some wine for the dinner this evening. Why shouldn't I?"

"I'll do it!"

"Oh, it's all right, it's just a bottle of wine."

"No! I'll get it," Daisy awkwardly pushed past Anna into the cellar, "Which wine do they want?"

"Er… the 1899 one. Some French name."

"I think I know it…. Yes, 'ere it is."

The girl emerged with a dark bottle of wine covered with a sprinkling of grime. When she rubbed at it, a sleek label read various words in French.

"Shall I take this to the kitchen?" She asked abruptly, and without waiting for an answer, began to scuttle away, but Anna caught her by the arm.

"Daisy? Are you all right?" Daisy looked at her with a slight expression of fear.

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?"

The housemaid looked at her speculatively, and then smiled sympathetically.

"It's William, isn't it? You can tell me, y'know."

For some odd reason, a flash of relief passed her face before she stopped wringing the towel, and she looked at Anna.

"Oh, Anna – "she began, and then sniffed. The older woman patted her.

"Oh come on, none of that. It'll be all right, you'll see." She led Daisy outside to the back yard, and sat her down on a bench just by the back door. The young girl sniffed and wiped her eyes with her grubby sleeve.

"It's just… 'e 'asn't replied to...to…'is letters recently… and think what might've 'appened! What if 'e's injured? Or… or what if 'e's…" She burst into tears again.

"The army've probably got 'im busy, that's all," Anna said reassuringly, "And it's a long way to France, y'know. Think 'ow many letters get sent each day! A few are going to get lost in the post."

"I suppose… but also… "

"What?"

"Don't you think that it's…'s not fair…"

"Of course it's not fair. It's a war."

"No! Not that. I mean… don't you think it's not fair that only Thomas can come back?"

Anna paused. "Thomas is injured."

"But I mean… back 'ere. At Downton. Why 'im and not William?"

"You don't want William injured."

"I don't want 'im getting… gettin' shot out in France!"

"Listen, I know Thomas coming back here to Downton isn't strictly right, because he resigned and all, and I'm not too glad he's 'ere either, but there's probably some reason he's 'ere. And 'e is injured. No news is good news. William'll be fine. He always is."

"I suppose." Daisy gave one last disconsolate sniff and stood up. Anna smiled at her.

"There, now, shall we go back to work? Mrs Patmore will 'ave my head if I don't get that wine to her."

A bird squawked loudly from some high-up spot. The two of them walked back down the corridor and entered into the kitchen, the sound of their footsteps ricocheting off the floor.

As soon as they disappeared, two more people emerged from a different doorway and bustled into the corridor, their manner stressed and uneasy.

"Really, you haven't changed a bit!" One said, almost cheerfully.

"Neither have you. And that's why you have to go," the other hissed.

"Go? But I've barely started."

"Don't _play _with me." The voice lowered dangerously.

"What will you do about it?"

"I'll make sure you leave."

"Oh please. Stop making threats you can't follow up, or someone's not going to be happy," The voice was teasing again, "I'm going to have _lots _of fun."

"Don't you dare do anything!"

"_Try_ and stop me. So who do you recommend? The little girl? The deaf one? Or maybe the blonde one – what's her name? Anna?"

"Don't you touch her! Or anyone. Leave them alone."

"Oh, very frightened, I'm sure."

"This _isn't _a _game_."

They brushed out of the hallway and into another room, and out of sight, their whispers suddenly becoming muted.

XXX

He had been surprised as it suddenly fluttered to the floor, appearing out of a fold of some material. Watching it settle on the floor, amongst the thin layer of dust that seemed to coat everything in the room, he wondered how on earth he had missed it before.

Eventually he left his unpacking and picked the object up and turned it over. The edges were slightly creased and watermarked at the corner. The stretched writing was sprawled on the paper:

_To Mary._

Thomas pondered what to do with it. Was it too late to give it now? Should he just leave it? If he gave it to her, surely he'd have to explain why he said Mary didn't get a letter, and the thought of facing that family again didn't appeal. Those questions swooping past him and not received – he shuddered at the feeling of helplessness. It was a new feeling and one he hoped desperately he wouldn't have to deal with for long.

Then again, nothing could be the same if… when he got better. Probably nobody would take him bloody seriously again, because they'd just remember the pathetic man who refused to talk. Everyone would just smirk and act bloody superior.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Perhaps O'Brien would act the same. She never really changed anyhow. Well, not that he knew. He – and he was ashamed to admit it even to himself – had been avoiding her, probably irrationally. The reason was unknown to him. He supposed that… that… he was afraid she'd treat him like everyone else. That she'd think he was weak, for managing to get injured so easily, for not facing up to his injury like a proper soldier. But she wouldn't, would she? O'Brien was O'Brien. So why was he so being so damn stupid about it?

Anyway, that wasn't the issue right now. The issue was what to do with the letter. He didn't really care what it said. He would rather pretend he never saw it and put it straight back, move on, but… He couldn't. No, it would be pointless. He might as well just give it to them and make it the family's problem, not his. Though why it would be a problem, he didn't know.

Turning the letter over and over in his hands, he finally went slowly to the door.

XXX

Edith was walking along the bedroom corridor, looking idly at the pictures and vases and whatnot. She had never really paid attention to them – nobody had. But, she thought, peering at a picture, they were really quite interesting. Such a beautiful picture of the coast by this door here… and there was a priceless vase elegantly standing in the corner. And what did she know about them? Nothing. They were sat there, part of the decor, as elegant and striking as everything else, yet utterly passed by. So finely woven and so easily forgotten in favour of the more famous things, the most flashy and obvious and important. So sad.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hesitant footsteps stopping as they came around the corner. Spinning around, she saw that footman who had come back (or at least she thought it was him) standing awkwardly at the end of the hallway, looking very much like he wished he could step back and leave. He held a letter in his hand.

He looked at her with deliberation for a minute, but when she looked back he avoided her gaze. Then he quickly began to walk past her. As he came closer, Edith could see what the envelope said: _To Mary. _

Perhaps it was a rash decision, but she abruptly put her arm out and grabbed the man. He jumped and turned around to face her, a frown suddenly decorating his face. A look of unexpected anger flashed in his eyes.

She indicated the letter he was holding. He evidently interpreted her meaning wrong, because he shook his head and showed her who it was addressed to. She nodded in agreement and held out her hand for it. After giving her a very bemused look, he handed it to her and left speedily.

Edith recognised Matthew's handwriting. She quickly went into her room and opened the letter.

_Dear Mary,_

_I don't know what to say, but I feel I need to write. I know what I said at that garden party, and it still stands. Well, to an extent. I won't marry you, not like this. But I have to tell you: I love you. I always did. I don't know what you think of me any more: you never write, and these trenches are so dull. I hope you feel the same. _

_From Matthew_

Edith felt a growing anger as she read the letter. Anger that things always went right for Mary, and never for her. Mary, that witch, had made Anthony Strallan leave when it could have been so… brilliant. She felt tears prick her eyes as she remembered him walking away, disillusioned and downhearted.

Meanwhile, Mary could do anything and she still had gushing men. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't! She deserved to feel how Edith had felt, have something go really wrong for once.

She went to the mantelpiece, where a little inkpot sat. She barely ever used it. Picking up a fountain pen, she dipped it into the ink and turned to the letter. A small drop spattered onto the edge.

_I love you._

Glaring at the straggling words, she slowly and carefully blotted out the words, and as an afterthought, the entire sentence went too. The new ink shone like glass in the light coming through the window, sinking gently into the paper and keeping the words below a secret from the only person who was meant to know them.

After the ink had dried, she got up and left the room, stopping this time outside Mary's. She knew her sister was out at the minute, probably walking around thinking about how oh-so-terrible her life was.

So she walked in without qualms and left the letter lying on the bed.

XXX

_We think you may have shell shock._

**And what's that supposed to be?**

_It's a traumatic condition brought on by war._

**Right. And why am I supposed to have this?**

_Because you've been to war._

**I'm not even going to bother arguing.**

_Good. So, can I ask you a few questions?_

**You're only asking out of courtesy. I can't actually stop you. **

_I'll take that as a yes. _

**Are you fatigued? Difficulty making decisions?**

_There aren't that many decisions to make._

**Preoccupation with minor tasks?**

_Depends what you mean by minor, doesn't it? Anyway, this doesn't make any sense. If I did have this…shell shock thing, I'd hardly be admitting everything. And no, that's not a confession. _

**Another symptom is irritability, you know.**

_Oh, for God's sake! Would you be quiet, woman!_

**I'm just trying to help you.**

_Don't give me that. You want me to be a test subject, an object for competition between the two of you. You don't actually care._

**Another symptom is mistrust. **

_This is ridiculous, and you are ridiculous. I don't know why I'm made to come here. I'm going back._

He threw the paper and pen down and left the room, almost running down the stairs and out the front door. They thought he was bloody mad, just because he'd gone to bloody war, well he wasn't, he damn well wasn't and they were just stupid people who didn't know anything and they didn't understand and they didn't care they thought they knew everything well he'd prove that he wasn't mad because he wasn't he wasn't mad there had to be someone who'd realise that…

His current of turmoiled thoughts trailed off in a haphazard jumble as he saw O'Brien sitting smoking in the back yard of Downton – his way in.

O'Brien and Thomas locked eyes as he came closer. She seemed expectant but also questioning. When he didn't do anything she looked away and seemed to lose interest. He couldn't move. He wanted to talk to O'Brien, he wanted her to say something, and most of all, he wanted to be able to hear it. He wanted things to be normal.

He also wanted a bloody cigarette.

She turned around and saw him still standing in the same place. To his surprise, she looked exasperated, and after a second she slid along the bench, evidently making room for him. Not wanting to seem cowardly, he went towards her and sat down doubtfully.

The lady's maid handed him a cigarette. He took it and lit it. Then they just sat silently.

He didn't know how long they stayed there, but the sky was considerably darker by the end. Several times he wished he could say something to her, but he didn't. Several times she looked at him like she was about to tell him something, but each time she just sighed and looked away.

Finally he got up and entered the house, leaving the woman behind in the growing darkness. Walking towards the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Daisy in the kitchen. She looked unusually lost in thought and slightly upset. She was probably thinking about her bloody beloved William.

He wandered up the stairs and was about to open the door to his room when somebody grabbed his arm.

_God dammit, _he thought, _second time today._

Swerving around, he found himself staring into the face of that new maid. Confused, he tried to get out of her grip but she held on, tighter. Thomas looked at her enquiringly. As a response she took a step forward, making him step backwards against the wall.

This was _not _normal. He started to push her away, but she suddenly looked to the right of the corridor. Following her gaze, he saw Bates standing there with a face of thunder. Taking this distraction as an opportunity, he wrenched his way out of her grasp. She and Bates were doing some fast talking, but he didn't have a clue what they were saying.

Finally she marched off into a different room, and judging from the way the door seemed to shudder as it closed, she slammed it.

Bates didn't look at him, and Thomas, feeling slightly bewildered, opened his door and walked into his room.

_What a day. _

He considered the army uniform hung up on the back of the door. It hadn't moved from there since the day he'd arrived.

Funny really. He'd been so terrified of going to France, so certain it would be ten times harder than anything that he'd done before, when really the most difficult thing had turned out to be to come back here.

He wished he hadn't come back. He wished he hadn't got injured. He wished he weren't deaf. He wished…

He wished he were still in France.

_A/N: And I'm back! So, so, so, so sorry for the ridiculously long wait! I made the chapter extra-long to try and make up for it. *innocent smile* Truth is, I gave up on the story. Didn't like my own plan. And then, when I'd finally been convinced to carry it on, a whole barrage of things happened, including holidays, exams and general busyness. So sorry! But I'm back now, if anyone's still interested. _


	9. Chapter 9

Mrs Crawley and the Dowager Countess exchanged dubious glances, before looking doubtfully back at him. This went on several times before either of them spoke.

**You… **_**miss **_**it? **

Thomas resisted turning his eyes heavenward with some difficulty and stared at them with an annoyed glare. These upper classes had such a hard time grasping basic concepts. He hadn't wanted to tell them in the first place. He'd known they'd respond just like this.

He'd tried to explain that he wanted to be back in France (he didn't add that it was because it was away from here, and he was actually terrified of going back to shellfire). Of course they couldn't understand it. They just rephrased it to suit themselves. No doubt Mrs Crawley would soon be shaping this new information in her brain to mean that he was in some way psychologically traumatised – well, that's what she called it. In his eyes she was just desperate to prove that he was mad.

Once again, he picked up the pen with irritation.

_I don't _miss _it; it just wouldn't be bad to be there. _

With some interest he watched as a whole series of communications played out between the two women after they read his response. Isobel Crawley looked pointedly at the Dowager Countess, who raised a thin eyebrow in reply. The nurse then frowned and sighed ruefully, whereupon the elder woman pursed her lips in an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace.

Were they completely mad? He wondered idly. They did realise he wasn't blind as well, didn't they? Thomas smirked at them and lit a cigarette, completely ignoring the break in the silent communications as both women gave him a reproving look. _Oh no, _he thought, _what a terrible crime. In the middle of a war, is there anything worse than lighting a cigarette in a hospital? _

**I'm going to ask you a few more questions. **Isobel Crawley's writing appeared under his nose, and that time he did roll his eyes. Brilliant. More probing to check that he was mad. What did he have to do to convince them he was sane? Bounce off the hallways reciting Shakespeare? That seemed to be the backwards way the hospital was working.

**Have you had any occurrences of disturbed sleep? **

_If sleep was disturbed, it wouldn't be sleeping anymore. _

**Do you feel easily startled?**

_You make it sound as if people are jumping out of dark corners all day in an attempt to scare me._

**You're a reasonable man. I need you to answer the questions sensibly. **

Feeling exasperated, he decided he might as well just give them what they wanted. At least they'd let him go.

_Why yes, as a matter of fact, I can hardly sleep because I feel as if I'm falling into a deep abyss of darkness and despair filled with blood and grief. Monsters come out of the shadows and the whole world is a cage. I'm most likely half insane. _

Thomas schooled his features into nonchalance as he handed back his melodramatic words. Now they'd pick up the hint that he was _not _mad and they could stop worrying.

There was a long pause as the two women perused his writing. They exchanged a few words, which made him scowl, he hated it when people talked now, and then looked back at him, their faces the very portrait of sympathy and concern. He looked at them with sudden suspicion. They _had _to have realised he was joking, didn't they? They didn't think he…

_I'm glad you've finally opened up. It's going to be all right. We're here to help. _

If he was talking, he would have uttered a rather unseemly explicit word. They thought he was telling the truth. Those crackpots actually thought he felt like he was – what was it? – falling into a deep abyss of darkness and despair.

**Well, that's brilliant and all that, but you two do realise I was joking? You know, jokes. You may have heard of them. **

Isobel Crawley looked at him again and patted him on the shoulder consolingly.

_Now this, _he thought sourly as he left the building, _is exactly why you don't crack jokes with the upper classes. They just have no sense of humour at all._

As he walked down the road from the hospital to Downton, he was pondering the new turn of events so deeply he didn't notice the woman walking in the opposite direction until they walked into each other. He stepped to the side out of the way, seeing who he had bumped into. It was that new maid, Miss Sharpe (bloody posh of her, to get people to call her Miss when she was only a maid).

She was wearing all-brown clothing, which made her look something akin to a cup of tea. Or a cowpat, depending which way one looked at it.

Miss Sharpe started to apologise -well, Thomas supposed, she could have been damning him for all he knew – and he stared blankly as she rattled away. When he looked up again, she was giving him a rather disturbing secretive smile.

Feeling somewhat unsettled, they parted and he carried on his way.

XXX

_Dear Mary,_

_I don't know what to say, but I feel I need to write. I know what I said at that garden party, and it still stands. Well, to an extent. I won't marry you, not like this. _(A huge spatter of ink followed this sentence)_. I don't know what you think of me any more: you never write, and these trenches are so dull. I hope you feel the same. _

_From Matthew_

Mary couldn't quite describe what she was feeling. It was if…. It was if she'd been trying for something for so long and just as it was in arm's length, it was wrenched away again, and it left a dull ache in her chest and a bitter taste in her mouth.

She didn't understand why she was feeling this way now. It was all her doing, after all. Her and her stupid entail and heirs and nonsense. Well, granted, that wasn't _all _her doing, but it might as well have been for the way she was feeling now. It was all completely ridiculous.

Of course, there was no reason she should have expected anything less as a response from Matthew. It was all perfectly understandable. She decided it should be this way, and so it was. She was simply, categorically, absolutely _not _going to despair and cry like a little girl. Now she was an adult, she had to take responsibility for her actions and accept her mistakes.

Only naturally, the world had to make it so _difficult _for her.

Eventually she dropped the letter and walked over to the window, trying to focus her mind on other things. Trying to make these horrible feelings seeping into her go away. Her eyes raked over the trees and grass and gravel and Anna and Bates just walking out of sight, but finally her eyes glazed over with emotion and a single tear trickled down her face. She turned away again.

XXX

"Anna… I want you to stay away from Sarah Sharpe."

"The new maid? Why?"

"I… I'm scared she'll do something…"

"You know her, don't you? You've been acting different ever since she arrived."

"Ye-es, I know her, and I know that's she'll bring no good. Just… keep clear of her. For me."

"All right, but I do wish you'd tell me. You can talk to me, you know."

"I know."

XXX

Night peppered the daylight, turning the day darker and darker until finally the only light left were the small dots of stars in the sky.

Inside the house, staff were finishing their tasks and getting ready for bed one by one. Down the men's corridor, one woman walked slowly, keeping to the walls. Her step was unsteady and her expression malevolent. She reached a door and glanced backwards for an instant, as if to check that nobody was watching her, then she leisurely tried the handle. It was locked.

Undeterred, she carried on past it and wandered up to another door. This time it swung open, and she stepped inside. Looking around, she realised it was empty. Thrown for a moment, she contented herself with brushing the contents of the top of the chest of drawers to the floor, which landed with a muffled thump. Then she brushed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

She reached a third door and touched the handle.

XXX

The door hesitantly opened a little. Thomas caught the movement and went to open it entirely to see who was there, but before he got there Sarah Sharpe slipped in. He stopped abruptly feeling surprised and confused, a feeling emphasised when she closed the door and stuffed some sort of paper into the lock like some half-baked attempt to jam the lock.

He watched her questioningly, and the same unsettled feeling returned as she smiled that disturbing smile she had done when they'd bumped into each other earlier. Except this time, he thought it looked a lot more malicious than before.

After some time she took measured steps towards him, although she stumbled a little. Unsure what he was supposed to do, he took a step back uncertainly, but she carried on walking towards him. Soon she was so close he could smell the alcohol on her breath. Once again, he backed away only to find his back hit the wall.

_Well, this is a bloody situation. I've got a drunken woman trying to seduce me or something of the sort. _

To his alarm, Sarah Sharpe didn't stop once he'd hit the wall. She attempted to pin him there, but he awkwardly sidestepped out of the way. As he did so, the woman grabbed his arm and held it in a vice-like grip.

He swung round to face her, feeling unable to do anything. Technically she hadn't done anything wrong, so to use force would probably be gasped at.

She swooped at him suddenly, seemingly to try and lay a kiss on him. He turned his face away and stumbled back, trying to keep her at arm's length. But in her inebriated state she simply would not back away. Thomas attempted to push her away as she leaned in again. The stench of stale alcohol was disgusting.

Her hand stretched out to reach his face, but when it was centimetres away he finally lashed out and used full force to shove her away from him.

Sarah Sharpe fell backwards on to the floor and looked at him with almost childish hurt. He stared at her, feeling a mixture of shock and anger. Her face slowly creased up like paper and she started crying. It was unsettling. He wasn't about to _comfort _her, after all.

At last she stood up gracelessly and brushed herself down before staggering towards the door, still crying. He watched her as she struggled with her own lock jam and finally wrenched the door open and departed.

But Thomas could have sworn that just before she disappeared, that malicious smile swept across her face once more.

XXX

Carson blew on his hands in an attempt to warm them up in the chilly February air night-time. He hadn't felt tired at all and had decided to go for a walk around the backyard as he waited for sleepiness to come.

He watched with absent-minded interest as the lights in the staff bedrooms went out one by one. He identified the occupants of the rooms as the windows went dark. After a while, Carson noticed that one room was staying bright a lot longer than the others.

As he was about to look away, silhouettes appeared in the window. A man and a woman. The man was walking backwards, and the woman followed him, grabbing his arm before they disappeared from sight.

He tutted slightly. It was a silly young affair, nothing more. He walked around a bit more, pacing up down by the walls in the darkness, observing how the darkness made objects unrecognisable and alien-like.

XXX

"Right Daisy, this is it."

"Yes Mrs Patmore."

"Scared?"

"N-n… what if it's dangerous?"

"Are you mad? It's a ghost."

"Yes, I know."

"Right. Let's go!

The back door crept open and two heads appeared around it, glancing around for movement.

"This way, behind the crates!"

They scuttled behind some empty wooden crates and peered round again.

"See anything?"

"Not yet Mrs Patmore."

"'Ere, move along, let's 'ave a look."

Their eyes skimmed the backyard. At that very moment, a large person-shaped blob of darkness appeared from the shadows and started walking next to the wall.

Daisy and Mrs Patmore exchanged one terrified look before Mrs Patmore let out a terrifying war cry and charged towards the figure, tossing the net over it.

The ghost let out a surprised 'Oh!' and lurched into the light of the kitchen, the dark phantom suddenly transforming into a very disgruntled-looking Mr Carson.

_A/N *crawls in on hands and knees, begging for forgiveness.* I know, I know, you must all hate me now. Not only do I abandon this story without warning, I then have the audacity to come back to it and continue! I am so unbelievably sorry for the ridiculous unacceptable wait. It's just that I lost all enthusiasm for the story and it took me so long to convince myself to continue. I apologise deeply, and hope some lonesome reader at least decided to read this chapter before getting the rotten tomatoes out. _


End file.
